Page 85 of Hollow

The gesture seems to deflate some of Damiano’s anger. His hand covers hers, large and protective. “You have no idea what you’re walking into.”

“These events... they’re not like your party,” he continues, gentler now but no less intense. “They’re darker. More exposed. People lose control.”

“I killed a man,” she says, dropping to a fierce whisper. “I think I can handle a fancy sex club party.”

“It’s not just that,” I try to explain. “Viktor uses these nights to gather information, to watch people when they’re vulnerable. If you show up?—”

“If I show up, it’ll look natural,” she cuts me off. “Like I’m just checking out the local scene with my... whatever you two are to me. If I avoid it now, after he’s seen us together, it looks way more suspicious.”

Damiano runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “She has a point, Flint.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this,” I hiss at him.

“I’m trying to think clearly,” he says, eyes lockedon Briar. “If she doesn’t show, Viktor will wonder why. Especially after how eager she seemed.”

“So we’re risking her safety because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut?” I argue, instinctively pressing my hand more firmly against her back.

“I’m standing right here,” Briar says, irritation flashing in her eyes. She twists away from my touch. “And I’m going, with or without your approval. I’d prefer with, since you two actually know what to expect.”

“Briar,” Damiano says in that deep register that usually means he’s deadly serious. “If anything happens to you?—”

“Nothing will happen,” she interrupts, her expression softening as she looks between us. “I’ll be careful. I promise. But I need to do this. I can’t just hide and hope this all goes away.”

Something in her vulnerability breaks through my anger. I can see Damiano’s resolve crumbling too.

I want to argue more, but the determined look in her eyes stops me. This isn’t the fragile princess I first imagined her to be. She’s proven that over and over.

“Fine,” I concede with a sigh, “but you stay with one of us at all times. No wandering off, no talking to Viktor alone, and you wear what I tell you to wear.”

“Agreed,” she says, the victory already clear in her smile. “See? Was that so hard? Letting me make my own choices while setting reasonable boundaries?”

“Don’t push it,” I warn, but there’s no real heat in my words. “This whole plan is still fucking stupid.”

“And if either of us says it’s time to go, we go,” Damiano adds. “No arguments.”

“Deal.” She looks between us, a flash of excitement mixing with the apprehension in her eyes. “So... what exactly does one wear to a primal ritual sex party?”

Despite everything, I find myself laughing. “Something that won’t draw too much attention,” I say, knowing it’s probably impossible. Briar Waters will draw attention no matter what she wears. “And for fuck’s sake, stay away from white dresses.”

“Noted.” Her hand finds mine again, squeezing gently. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Her confidence should be reassuring, but all I can think about is Viktor’s calculating gaze, the way he observed her like she was a puzzle to solve.

Chapter 28

Briar

The Vault looks different tonight.

Not just because of the people spilling out onto the street—bodies pressed together, laughter cutting through the night air—but because everything about it has transformed. Gone is the sleek exclusivity of the place I snuck into days ago. Tonight, the old bank building throbs with primal energy, its stone facade adorned with burning torches that cast wild, dancing shadows across the crowd.

“Still sure about this?” Damiano murmurs close to my ear as we approach, his hand firm on the small of my back.

“I’m sure,” I say, despite my racing pulse. After our argument at the cemetery, neither he nor Flint tried to talk me out of coming, but I could feel their worry when we separated—Flint heading straight to work at The Vault hours ago, Damiano taking me back to the estate to get ready.

I’d spent hours overthinking my outfit before settling on something that wouldn’t scream “notice me”: black jeans, a sheer black top over a simple camisole, boots that lend me an inch of height I don’t really need. My hair is loose, falling around my shoulders in waves that catch the torchlight.

But it’s the mask that completes the look—a delicate thing of black lace that Damiano produced from a box he brought to the estate, fitting it carefully over my eyes before we left.

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